


Already Extraordinary

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dad Lord Asriel, Daemons, Developing Friendships, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Insecurity, Introspection, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, Lyra Knows Lord Asriel Is Lyra's Father, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Pre-Series, Protectiveness, Soft Lord Asriel (HDM)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Asriel never kills Edward Coulter and instead Marisa does. He raises Lyra as his only daughter and heir to the Belacqua name.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Marisa Coulter & Lord Asriel
Comments: 28
Kudos: 150





	Already Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeyai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyai/gifts), [missevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missevil/gifts).



> OH MAN IT'S THE LAST SATURDAY OF JANUARY. Well, this is my last Dadriel Saturday until Femslash February is over. I have had a wonderful time and I appreciate every comment and every read there has been. I got asked by **m-issevil** and **honeyai48** to do something with Asriel raising Lyra (and her meeting the rest of the Belacquas) and make it longer. So I did this! I hope everyone loves it and any thoughts/comments would mean everything to me! ❤︎❤︎❤︎

*

Living under the Belacqua name requires a means to prove your worth.

Achieving greatness. Honour. Fame. Devoution to a field of significant importance to the lives of many. Respect from both enemy and friend. Both of Asriel's parents — Lord and Lady Belacqua, a parliamentarian from the noblest lines of blood and wealth and the Queen's most trusted female advisor discovered their purpose in this world. That isn't what Asriel wants.

He will go _beyond_.

During his time in military service, with his persistent, brash ambition, rising steadily up the ranks from the young age of twenty, Asriel knew some things for certain, which were: Men felt _incredible_ , bucking and writhing to Asriel's hands, on his lips and in him, just as much as any woman seducing Asriel, flattering him and opening herself to him, and therefore: everything the Holy Church told Asriel was a _lie_.

Fearmongering.

Shaming him for his natural urges and casting blame on anyone _but_ themselves.

He swore to rid of their power over vulnerable minds. To expose them for their dark, sinister deeds and free the innocents.

Asriel hadn't the inclination for marriage or giving his family any heirs. He briefly met a woman named Marisa Coulter at one of the private, elegant parties of the Royal Arctic Institute while she studied, fond of her intellect and loveliness. Her ambition that never wavered in the faces of old, cynical men running their governments. She _hated_ them. She wanted their hearts _burned out_.

Regret did not cross his mind. Not even with Marisa's urgent, disapproving whispers of the child filling her belly to be his own.

_The child._

It does not truly sink in until he happens to be there for the birth. Coincidence or not.

No one informs him at first when Asriel exits his tram-car, listening to the sparks of anbaric wires cooling down.

He wanders up the marblestone walkway, leading through the entrance's primrose-and-honeysuckle gardens and to the manor's enormous door. Stelmaria's claws tip-tap upon the newly washed stone. Asriel can see Marisa's influence on the decorations with the gigantic, robed statues of angels, their bodies delicate and inviting to contrast their hardened expressions.

He's there only for Edward Coulter, right then, hoping to discuss his vote in Parliament over a bit of smokeleaf and dark plum wine. There's a new clause in the bill Asriel introduced some weeks ago. He worked alongside John Faa and other heads of the gyptian families to create a piece of legislation to shield themselves against the Holy Church's discrimination and unlawful raids on their homes. This additional clause served as a hindrance. It would make Asriel's bill _useless_ to the gyptians if they were accousted, murdered or defiled at the hands of the local authorities.

Asriel has been the only noble so far to sincerely care.

Now is the time to convince those remaining who are _undecided_ to vote in favour of Asriel's side. He needs one more to tip the scales.

Edward Coulter, without a shadow of a doubt, has no love of the gyptian people himself but he weighs his decisions carefully, greedily. He would scrutinise Asriel's every word and make a decision based on what Asriel could offer him in turn.

They met as boys, years and years ago. Edward Coulter's temper, as well as his unusually strong physique, granted him a masterfully intimidating reputation to the other children. His yellow-blond hair neatly slicked off his forehead. Amber-gold eyes full of contempt and a kind of faraway lust when he pinned Asriel to the yard's wall, smushing their lips roughly. He had been so ashamed of himself that Edward Coulter decided to punch the other boy into the dirt, threatening him, spitting on Asriel.

Asriel said nothing as a boy or as a man. Not of the violent, past occasion, or when Edward Coulter kissed him again when they graduated their respective military schools, backing him into an unlit stairwell, putting his hands under Asriel's trousers and groping him. He took no notice of Asriel's indifference, his eagle daemon nuzzling against Stelmaria who merely blinked.

If it means allowing Edward Coulter to use his body to _whatever means_ , Asriel has no qualms. It wouldn't be the first time.

(He seemed to hold Asriel with a fair amount of esteem for his discretion. Asriel suspects he wouldn't feel this way _after_ learning Marisa's affairs finally caught up with her, as she has been impregnated by Asriel, and mistakenly assuming it was a _Coulter_.)

A butler welcomes Asriel through the main entrance, nodding tersely. His long-eared spaniel patters alongside him.

Asriel takes notice of the increase of security. The uniformed house-guards examine their weapons for ammunition and command their bloodhound daemons, hustling past Asriel, knocking him. Maids titter in and out of the downstairs corridors. But most of the activity and noise seems to be coming above everyone's heads. Footsteps and rattling trays and a woman moan-screaming.

Edward Coulter has been traveling abroad, or so says the butler. He should be arriving within five or six days, out from West Arabia, since he received the telegrams of Mrs. Marisa Coulter starting her slow, difficult labour.

When the butler excuses himself to fetch the tea, Asriel thinks over what to do. Stelmaria purr-murmurs to him, gazing up to the ornate, pale gold-railed stairs and his eyes follow. A pair of giggly chambermaids walk themselves down, step-by-step, attempting to balance a heap of crimson-stained sheets together. One of them nearly slips, yelp-giggling, her back stabilised by Asriel's palm as he bounds up to help her. She flushes, eyeing him in a familiar girlish delight, whining when the other maid swears and scolds her.

They keep moving, and Asriel uses them as a cover against the house-guards, darting upstairs.

In Marisa's birthing room, there's no guards. Plenty of midwives and female friends, crooning over her, encouraging her to push and to take long, deep breathes, and Asriel recognises one of them — a politician's wife who successfully outranked her own husband due to her owning an array of jewellery businesses and expensive diamond mines, gaining praise from the King.

(Marisa called her a _conquest_ , drunk on fine red brandy and good company well over a year ago, detailing to Asriel how to _properly_ finger a virgin.)

Asriel keeps to himself, looking away, offering no distraction and waiting patiently. He crosses his arms, leaning against the pale gold-and-blue wall, only breaking out of his thoughtless haze when a midwife approaches him, completely infuriated.

"You can't be here, sir," she demands, and one of the house-guards lingers behind her. The guard in in full, black uniform-armour, gun in hand.

Asriel turns his head as Stelmaria growls, her jaws half-revealed. He witnesses the midwife's gerbil daemon on her shoulder faint. Not because of his clearly angered snow leopard daemon, but the expression on Asriel's face. The midwife blanches.

"… Who is going to remove me?" Asriel questions with an eerie, quiet calmness. An open challenge as well as a threat.

That's when the commotion returns full force, sounding with loud, reassuring voices and Marisa's final scream of effort. The midwife huffs, waving away the house-guard failing to stare Asriel down. He whirls around, his bloodhound daemon quivering.

A girl, the midwives call out, laughing and brightly smiling. A healthy little girl.

When he hears the wailing, Asriel discovers himself chuckling in relief. His eyes overflow with silent tears. He lowers his head.

*

From the first moment Lyra breathed, he knew her life meant more than anyone else's. Asriel knew he would be the one to look after her. It didn't matter if Marisa agreed, or Asriel couldn't be there every second for his daughter, but he belonged to Lyra now.

_Lyra._

She's hideously small and squished for a baby, and more of a hot, mottled red than pink.

He waits until all of the physicians and midwives, as well as Marisa's closest friends refusing to leave her side until she snapped at them, to vanish out of the birthing room before Asriel can think to approach. Stelmaria goes ahead of him. Her wet nostrils twitch and snuffle as Marisa's golden monkey chitters. He leans out, eagerly petting Stelmaria's black-and-silvery ears.

Asriel doesn't ask for permission, taking the bundle of blankets out from the pale blue crib and shifting his arms. Lyra smells like powder and warm linens and even more faintly of Marisa herself. She barely has any weight in Asriel's mindful hands.

Stelmaria paws him impatiently, rumbling. Asriel lowers the baby to her, letting his daemon whisper to the baby's tiny daemon.

"Pantalaimon," she concludes. "Her daemon's name is Pantalaimon."

"Hello, Pantalaimon," Asriel murmurs, raising the bundle. Against Lyra's front, the chipmunk daemon yawns and nuzzles her.

"They will find out soon enough who she really is," Marisa tells him offhandedly. Her fingers hover in her dark, soft curls, pinning them. She's been recovering for several hours, bed-ridden and scrubbed clean and dressed in a silky, pale gold robe identical to the upholstery and woodwork and all of the furnishings of Edward Coulter's manour. Her own colours.

Asriel peers over to her, brow furrowing. "You don't sound overly concerned."

There's a echo of an accusation in there, and Marisa chooses to dismiss it, sighing heavily. Her monkey daemon sulks.

"It would be best if you take Lyra now and go quickly, Asriel."

"You _don't_ want her?"

"I'm quite content without this sort of distraction to my work, thank you." She primly lowers her hands, but Asriel can see the worry lines deepen to Marisa's features. "And… I do not want her blood on my hands. Mr. Coulter gets _so very jealous_ and there's no hiding she is _every_ bit of Lord Asriel Belacqua as Lord Asriel Belacqua himself." Hearing this brings a mingling of pride and horror welling up inside him. "So, please, take her. You have my full blessing and I will sign the documentations."

Lyra hiccups for a moment, whimpering in surprise. Asriel gazes down at her, murmuring her name and rocking her, grinning. "If your husband comes near my daughter," he drawls, still grinning with soft, unending love. "I will put the gun to his head myself."

Marisa smirks. "I'm well aware."

She reaches out to squeeze Asriel's elbow gently, like they're old friends. Asriel hopes they stay this way.

"Goodbye, Marisa."

*

Much happens afterwards.

Edward Coulter returns, and soon after he does, Marisa kills him.

She kills him with his own gun after he chases her down into their bedroom, yelling out that he will kill her, kill Lord Asriel, and kill that spawnling, _sinful_ child. Marisa strikes him with her perfume bottles. She yanks away his pistol when he's nearer to her, shooting him right between the eyes.

The court rules in favour of Marisa's case of self-defense, but not in the name of her daughter.

They clarify that she has signed away her rights as a mother upon pending documentation, and has since disowned Lyra Belacqua.

Asriel was not aware of the sheer proportions of _hatred_ for Edward Coulter.

No one scorns Marisa, for her not-so-secretive penchant of taking lovers, or Lyra's existence, or the killing. In fact, she's _revered_ for her bravery. Her willingness to be herself. Marisa decides to travel out of Brytian, for a while, intrigued by the long-distance affections of a Queen in Zimbabwe.

*

Lyra is already able to pick up sliced oranges with her chubby fingers and place them delicately in her mouth. She's around two years old.

He remembers her only being six months as if it were yesterday. Her fussy nature.

Asriel hired Ma Costa to stay with them, having to learn through her to change Lyra and bottle-feed her with goat's milk and how to warm the saucepan on the oven. He admired the way Lyra as a baby observed the world around her with lordly complacency. It's a Belacqua trait.

(For all of their mighty, unquestioned authority, the Holy Church can do absolutely nothing about the outpouring of interest and distant admiration to Lyra. Regardless of noble or commonfolk. No, they would not risk harming her or seizing her out of Asriel's hands. Thankfully this makes it easier for Asriel to do his work in peace — planning his own rebellion to destroy the Holy Church.)

*

Asriel's twin brother passes away before the wintertide of Lyra's second year. The late Count Belacqua died on his airship. He had been piloting alone, succumbing to an sudden brain aneurysm and crashing into a ravine far, far away in Mejico.

*

There's hushed, awestruck rumours of a city glimmering and glowing within the Northern Lights.

*

Asriel purchases three acres of land for a more secluded, roomier estate. Somewhere he can expand on his laboratories.

While it's being built, he chooses against staying with Lord and Lady Belacqua, not knowing how his parents would react to Asriel's daughter who was born out of a non-romantic but passionate _infidelity_. He understands they're aware of her, but doesn't trust anyone to not break Lyra's heart.

Lyra already has a difficult time grasping why Marisa left her.

She's thirteen. All she's known from her father and her father's friends and their friends was wholehearted _acceptance_ of Lyra.

He lives with an ex-lover and a trusted companion, not asking about Thomas Nugent's own laborious political business while he's in and out of his residence. Asriel instead focuses on his daughter, teaching her about mathematics, basic calculation, and navigation in map-reading. Lyra has knack for celestial geography, fascinated by the subject and wanting to learn more.

"The Holy Church has been reshaping itself," the Lord Chancellor informs Asriel.

He's older by eight or nine years, with a handsome, round face and plump hands. His skin as dark as coal-silk.

"They have been calling themselves 'The Magisterium' through paperwork, but it's spreading fast and erasing the legitimacy of their past crimes. They are hiring illegitimate foreign dictators. They have been using the Consistorial Court of Discipline to oppress the more liberal statesmen through Geneva, allowing the Holy Church to intercede everything." Lord Thomas Nugent's voice shudders with rage. His lemur daemon hisses. "Every law. Every fair and honest judiciary member has been driven out of their office, and we're all next. Asriel, I'm at a loss."

Across the lawn, they can see Lyra stretched in the prickly, dry summergrass, elbows propped up, kicking her legs and pointing to the cards lying out. She gestures towards The Hierophant card upside down, painted in golds and blues, as if reading and interpreting their meanings. Pantalaimon, as a sparrow, cocks his head inquisitively and listens to his human babbling on.

"What about Oakley Street?" Asriel replies dully, watching her. Stelmaria lowers herself to her belly, contently sunning herself.

A churlish snort.

"Do you believe a handful of men and woman employed in tradecraft can make the difference needed?"

"I believe anything is possible if you are willing to do whatever it takes." The response comes off straightforward, and yet Asriel's voice pitches towards enigmatic quality. Lord Thomas Nugent glares at him, exasperated.

"… You were a terrible lover," he mutters, lighting up his pipe.

Asriel laughs, quiet and raspy. His teeth exposing.

"It's fortunate you have a solid family name and your wealth and Lyra."

"Very fortunate."

*

Out through Lyra's candlelit window, Asriel glimpses juniper shrubs and blackthorns bathed in silvery, lonesome moonlight. Sycamores and ashes and whitebeams shadowing around the lake like dark ghosts. He walks in to see Lyra in the middle of cracking open her window, resting her foot on the sill. "Oh dear," Pantalaimon murmurs, hearing Stelmaria yowl.

Before she can think to protest or make up a lie, a stern-faced Asriel grasps her by the waist, lifting her in the air. "Not very clever of you," he reprimands Lyra, dropping her onto the goose-feather stuffed mattress. "Did you think I wouldn't notice an empty bed?"

Lyra's mouth thins.

Asriel tuts, combing out the knots in Lyra's dark, silky hair. He's perhaps graceless, using his fingers and not the hairbrush Lyra has.

"We're leaving in the morning."

She blinks, confused. "Why?" she asks.

"Lord and Lady Belacqua wish to meet you." Asriel leans over, helping her lie back and pulling her rose-patterned, thick quilt up to Lyra's chin. He finishes bundling her. Pantalaimon escapes the confinement, retreating as a polecat to Stelmaria. The snow leopard daemon paws him towards her, half-cradling him, giving Pantalaimon a big, messy lick. "I'm going to allow it. This is probably for the best."

He notices her uneasiness.

"Do they hate me?"

"No," Asriel blurts out, dismayed. "No, no, they don't hate you, Lyra. They don't know you." Lyra's dark brown eyes moisten, and she thumps herself down to her pillows. "I haven't been entirely truthful with them in the past… so I was convinced somehow they would blame you."

"Because… because Mama was already married when I was born."

She says this so sadly that Asriel's heart feels tight.

"Neither your mother nor I regret you. Not ever," he promises. Asriel's thumb strokes against the line of her jaw. "You came from something ordinary, and you'll be the one to make yourself extraordinary to the world. Because you're my blood. My daughter."

Lyra trembles, but she smiles widely, gently. "I love you, Papa… "

Asriel leans in again, kissing her hairline. "I love you," he murmurs, Asriel's lips holding their warm, worshipful press. "So much."

*

He wants to go _beyond_ what there was to see. But first, Asriel needs to understand what it felt like to be rooted in place. He stares up at his childhood home, with all of the green and fragrant ivy creeping along the stones. The old, wild pear tree.

One of the servants invites them in, lugging the bags.

Pantalaimon sneaks into Lyra's dress collar-lace, becoming as nervous as Lyra herself is. His ermine form blends to the white colour.

Asriel urges her into the parlor-room, fixing one of Lyra's sleeves. Stelmaria brushes heavily against his leg. She purrs out, tentatively coming forward to another daemon. A tiger daemon, wonderfully large and gleaming orange-black-white, recognises Stelmaria. He roars and pounces the snow leopard daemon, rolling them, nipping gently to Stelmaria's belly.

The woman with the tiger daemon… Asriel remembers her in his dreams best. Coils of golden hair. Her frail figure. Those wide-set and dark eyes Lyra inherited. His mother's soft hand running over his back when Asriel had been no more than a child.

"My lady," he murmurs, bowing his head.

"Oh," Lady Belacqua whispers, her expression fearful and shocked before she finally drags herself out of it, rushing over. Her delicate arms thrown round Asriel's neck. " _Oh_ , my sweet boy," she whispers again, releasing a lighthearted trill of a noise. Lady Belacqua nudges her cheek against his, pulling away to sniffle and cup his face warmly. "Asriel, it's been too long. You weren't… "

She trails off, matching Asriel's sudden show of grimness. His brother's funeral. He didn't come due to his research term and and having to take care of Lyra himself, but they were all reminded of him by looking Count Belacqua's photo above his casket.

Asriel touches over Lady Belacqua's hand, gazing into his mother's eyes and smiling faintly. He moves away.

"This is Lyra," Asriel says, feeling his daughter's fingers seeking his own for comfort. "Lyra Belacqua."

"Welcome," comes a new voice. The other occupant of the parlor-room steps in — a fierce-looking man with black hair fading to shiny, steely grey. A black mustache. Eyes as clearwater as Asriel's blue eyes. His daemon, an indigo peacock, makes an inquisitive noise and fluffs herself.

Lyra swallows. "Thank you."

"For goodness sake!" Lady Belacqua cries out, tightly hugging her granddaughter and weeping, laughing joyfully as Lyra hugs her back fiercely. Lord Belacqua watches them alongside his son, his expression relaxing. "This is all I wanted!"

"I have something for you, Lyra."

Lord Belacqua passes her a small package draped in black velvet. They all stare down at a thick disc of gold and crystal as she removes it. The disc almost resembles a large watch or small clock. Lyra measures the weight between her hands, astonished.

"What is it…?"

Asriel hesitates. "Is that the alethiometer from Oxford?"

"The very same," his father proclaims. "Dr Carne was pleased to give it away and his books. Now they're my granddaughter's."

Lady Belacqua tuts. " _Dear_ —"

"You ask it a question and it will shall you the truth. Every time," Lord Belacqua instructs her. Lyra's dark eyes widen with each spoken word. "One day, when you are no longer a young girl but a woman… you'll be able to read it properly."

"… … Any question?" she wonders aloud.

"Yes, Lyra." Lord Belacqua sends her a baffled look as she plops onto her bottom right in front of everyone, staring down at the alethiometer and turning all of the little, gilded hands. Asriel frowns. "You won't be able to use it without the books—"

"Mama hasn't left Zimbabwe, Papa… she doesn't want to." Lyra recites, studying the item. "She's… it says she's marrying the Queen."

A slightly choked sound escapes Lord Belacqua.

'" _You_ …"

She's a natural, Asriel finishes the thought with pleasure.

(And has always been _more_ than worthy of the Belacqua name.)

*


End file.
